Til Death Do He Part AU
by ArtJunkyard
Summary: Trials of Apollo AU in which Apollo finishes his trials, but is seen as unfit to rejoin the olympians after the insults he has thrown at them and the sensitive, Olympian-only information that he has shared. Zeus doesn't want him to rejoin them, and his word is law. Apollo is cast back down to live as a regular mortal, forbidden from entering the camps. Set 9 years after trials.


**This is a Trials of Apollo AU in which Apollo finishes his trials, but is seen as unfit to rejoin the olympians after the embarrassing things he has done, the insults he has thrown at them and the sensitive, Olympian-only information that he has shared. Zeus doesn't want him to rejoin them on Olympus, and his word is law, so he's cast back down to live as a regular mortal who's forbidden to enter the camps and have contact with deities. Hopefully he'll just forget about them… right? There's more information/art on this AU on the ToA discord, my instagram (my_art_junkyard) and my Tumblr (artjunkyardsdoodledump) This takes place nine years after the end of the trials, Lester is now 25. SPOILERS FOR THE TYRANTS TOMB (and all the ToA books)**

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Wailing sirens cut through the silent street, getting more and more deafening as they approached the bloodied form of a young adult who lay motionless on the sidewalk. The flashing blue and red police lights blinded and irritated the man. Nonetheless, he tried his hardest to keep his eyes open for as long as possible. He couldn't loose sight of the billions of gleaming constellations above him. But despite best efforts, they were becoming dimmer by the minute. Lester dragged in rugged, uneven breaths that became slower and more sluggish as the seconds passed.

His favourite wooden peacoat was loosing its grey colour to the deep red seeping from his side. His work shirt was in tatters, torn to shreds by the hellhound that had attacked the three young demigods he had been driving to camp half-blood. Lester thought of the little girls he had been guiding, his sympathetic heart aching at the thought of preteens making the long journey to camp all by themselves. He had defeated the hellhound and given them time, but with the price of his life. A price he was willing to pay. The thin, navy scarf he constantly wore in a European loop had come undone, the light fabric fluttering in the bitter winter wind. His pale skin had been utterly drained of pink undertones. He was too tired to quake under the sting of the December cold.

Footsteps. Getting closer. Yelling. Faint yelling. Faraway…

"…ter? _Lester! _C'mon buddy, wake up. Lester!"

Lester felt a few light slaps to his cheek, the cold of this person's hand shocking his eyes into opening a crack. (Wait…they had been closed?) He managed a tiny smile when he saw that he was looking up into the face of a very familiar man. The same man who had kindly brought him, a grubby teenager dressed in torn rags, into his own house when Zeus had refused to accept the tried boy back into his Olympian ranks. The same man who worked late shifts and extra days at his job as a police captain to pay for the additional food. The same man who had treated him like his own son for almost nine years.

"It's me, it's Derek!" His voice was fast and breathless. A reassuring smile tugged on his lips, though his eyes showed nothing but pure, undiluted fear. He sounded desperate for anything, any noise from his adopted son. "Derek Goodman, you hear me Les'? It's-"

"Dad," the young man croaked, before breaking down in a fit of coughs. Derek tried his best to calm his son, though he had to admit, the gash in his right abdomen was alarmingly deep. He was loosing blood fast. Derek kept one large, dark-skinned hand on the wound to slow the blood flow, and used the other to point and bark orders at his men who stood aways back from the scene, all very interested in their own boots. They had never seen their centred captain this distraught - and none wanted to endure it for much longer - and so they scattered to follow the captain's commands.

Meanwhile, Lester Papadopoulos was focusing all his remaining energy into tracing his index finger around a crack in the pavement beneath his hand, trying to think about anything other than impending death. He had known that the clammy hands of Thanatos would tear away his life-force one day, but he had hoped it would happen like a regular mortal's (as sad as he knew that was). In fact, he had envisioned it many times: he was in a hospital bed during a bright summer afternoon. He was surrounded by his children, his friends (most of which might as well be his children), and perhaps even his mother and twin, who still shone with eternal youth. He was grey and withered. This millennia-old life had nothing more to offer him. He was complete and at peace. The reality was startlingly crueler.

The pain that tore at his stomach, hands and face was fading to a dull throb as a deathly cold overtook his senses. His mind was alight with panic -_ where would he go when he died? Would he scrape Elysium or would the gates of the fields of punishment swallow his soul? Would he be cast into Asphodel, forced to wander for eternity as a blank apparition of his former self? Would he ever see his children again? Would he ever see Meg again? Meg. Where was Meg? Would she be okay without him? Would his mother weep for his passing? Would his father care?_ His last breath escaped his lips before he could think of an answer.

Even until the very end, the man's slashed and bleeding hand clutched onto a phone, the screen still alight with the emboldened words: '_Dad_' and '_Call ended_'.

…

…

…

.

I couldn't hear anything.

I couldn't feel anything.

I couldn't see anything.

No. Wait.

I _could_ see something. It wasn't anything, but it wasn't darkness either. It was different. It was light. A blinding, golden light that pierced my vision like searing hot needles. My body burned, but I could feel no definite limbs or appendages - just blazing, scorching heat. I didn't feel solid. But I was there, and for now, that was enough. Voices faded in and out of earshot, like someone was repeatedly dunking me underwater and yanking me back upwards before I drowned in my own subconscious.

Blurred shadows danced across my vision, blocking out the intense light with their large forms. Slowly, those forms sharpened and became detailed. I searched the many faces looming above me, surrounding me as if I was a fading patient on a hospital bed.

The faces were human... but not quite. They gave out a certain aura of boundless, buzzing power. I was quite sure it was supposed to make you drop whatever you were holding and run screaming to your momma, which is something I would've appreciated at that moment. As well as their general aesthetic, they also had strange features that no human should possess. The few who seemed happy to see me had literal halos of light around their heads that reflected their cheerful smiles. Some were less 'excited' and more _interested_ in my presence - one of which was a woman with piercing grey eyes who wore a full set of gleaming bronze armour, complete with a helm. One of them leaned against the wall to my left, smoking a cigarette and absentmindedly cleaning his wraparound shades on his red muscle shirt. His eye sockets were hollow, and where his eyeballs should have been, there were two spherical flames, both sparking and flickering furiously.

Panic started to swell in my throat as I realised the sheer number of beings present. Their energy unsettled me, their searching eyes and obvious raw power left me feeling extremely small and exposed. I tried to lift my arm, but I was too weak to move a muscle. All I could do was observe as eleven pairs of eyes (or flames) stared me down.

"Try not to move, sweetie," whispered a caramel-haired woman to my right. "Your essence is still settling. Give it time". She talked in a calming, soothing manner, like a mother to her child. Her tanned skin seemed to glow in the bright light, and her features were soft and caring. She wore a stark white sundress that revealed her shoulders. She looked as if she had been crying for hours. I felt my pounding panic slow to a rate that would only worry a doctor (instead of sending them into immediate shock). She did not seem like the type to try to hurt me. And I could've sworn I had seen her somewhere before.

In fact, I could have said the same thing to everyone in this room. They were all so frustratingly familiar, yet so vague that I couldn't place it. Where had I seen them? In a dream? In a past life? Was I dead? I didn't feel dead. Then again, I had never died before. Not completely, anyway. I tried to voice my concerns for which direction my soul had gone and if I could possibly go home, preferably with a hot latte and a sincere apology in the form of this month's rent money, but all that came out of my mouth was a puff of air and a small squeak.

"She told you not to move, idiot," an annoyed, young girl to my left spoke, rolling her piercing silver eyes - though they were also red and puffy from tears. She was about thirteen in age, with auburn hair pulled back into a high ponytail. She wore a grey parka, arctic camouflage trousers and weathered white hiking boots. On her head, she wore a silver crescent circlet that glinted in the light. I looked down and noticed she had one hand squeezing my arm so hard her knuckles were white.

_My arm._

I choked in horror as I took in my state. My skin was shifting and moving like the surface of a pool. My arms melted from being tanned and muscular, to being wiry and pale, and sometimes completely formless - like churning liquid gold encased in a vague human-esque shape. I saw my clothing was the same, though it flickered more frequently. The bronzed skin wore short greek togas, white blazers with gem-studded lapels, skinny jeans or red leather jackets. The pale form's wardrobe was much more limited - a thick, grey, knee-length peacoat made an appearance in many of the outfit combinations, along with a navy scarf and with dark, uniform trousers with work loafers. Sometimes though, the body sported a plain t-shirt with flannel pyjama bottoms or an oversized navy hoodie with some loose jeans. I noticed that unless the black loafers had been adorned, that form hardly ever wore shoes, like he could only afford one pair - though being broke would also explain why he wore the peacoat with everything.

Confusion beat down on my mind, threatening to crack my skull with the pressure. Who _was_ I? Which one of these bodies was mine? Surely it couldn't be_ both. _I closed my eyes and racked my aching brain. What was the last thing I remembered? Faces began to swim in my memories.

I remembered a girl in her late teens, about five years younger than myself. I had known her for years and knew her inside out - the pudgy ex-street-urchin who had been my best friend for nine long years. She had a bob of shaggy black hair and a constantly changing sense of fashion that got more mismatched with every outfit. Her tracksuit bottoms were a favourite, and maybe a tattered jacket every now and then, but sometimes she even dared to leave the house wearing double denim, which was the biggest no-no known to the human race. She had long since ditched the cat eye glasses in exchange for some more regular-looking red glasses, even though they magnified her eyes so much that she could have been mistaken for a Disney character. I grabbed at the name in my conscious, refusing to forget - Meg Mccaffrey.

The shifting between looks slowed as I thought about the name. The fit, tanned body became less frequent as I remembered what I looked like. Images - memories - flicked through my head. Feeling spread throughout my nerves and tingled warmly at my fingertips. I felt the soft bedding below me, and the tickle of my tight curls on my face. With my shoulders relaxing, I tilted my chin up slightly and sank further into the comfy pillow beneath my head, taking long, deep breaths. My life flowed through my brain in double time, allowing me to relive the last nine years in seconds.

My name was Lester Papadopoulos. I was a clear-sighted mortal and a lanky, caucasian man with tight brown curls, blue eyes and a relentless case of sniffly nose that never seemed to dissipate. My father was Derek Goodman, who had fostered me shortly after finding me unconscious in an alleyway in Brooklyn Heights, and officially adopted me when I turned eighteen. From there I had worked towards a goal of helping people, like my new dad did in his job as a police captain. I had become a paramedic, the first one one the scene when someone was hurt. I had saved some half-bloods from minotaur wounds, minor deity singeing and cyclops bruisings and broken bones. I calmed them and drove them to camp, where word spread of the human hero who openly helped half-bloods, free of charge and free of tricks. My crummy apartment had become a safe place for the lost and hurt descendants of both Greek and Roman deities - and even sometimes their faun or satyr protectors, if they were lucky enough. Even when I had no money in my pockets, I still tried my hardest to keep the shelves stocked for the next poor kids who didn't ask for their fate. When _those_ kids reached their camps, armed with the information that I was practically broke, demigods started appearing with snack food or teabags as meek offerings (curtesy of the satyrs/fauns, who seemingly didn't know what humans needed to make a sustainable meal). I learned their names and remembered their stories. When they couldn't sleep, they snuggled themselves into my own bed, like my own little personal hot water bottles - if hot water bottles could burrow their heads into my sides and put their freezing cold feet on my legs. They were all a _constant_ hassle, and I loved each and every one of them with all my heart. I would do anything to keep them safe, which is why I always had to say goodbye.

It dawned on me that this was what I had been doing when I died.

A chilling scene played in my mind's eye. It was dark, the street only lit by the golden light of the sparse, flickering street-lamps. I was running, my breath short, my exhales causing bursts of mist to hang in the frigid air behind me. A little girl in a worn, woollen jumper sprinted by my side, taking three steps for every one of mine, and still struggling to keep up. Her dark skin glistened with sweat. A rucksack - which was filled to the point of bursting with her inventions and things she _insisted_ that she could make 'useful' - bounced on her back, the contents clanging together with every stride. A few dreadlocks hung out of her now messy buns, one gathered on either side of her head. It was too dark to see her expression, but I could tell she was terrified from the whimpers she kept letting out. Hetta Abdi was always the worrier of the group, perhaps because she had inherited her godly father's genius, and was more aware than the others. It seemed like her and I were the only ones sensing the sheer weight of the situation, as neither of the other two seemed too concerned.

The youngest one slept soundly in my arms, her snores echoing through the night as the rest of us ran for our lives. Every few yards the girl's peaceful face was illuminated by another streetlamp, reminding me of the god who I was certain was her father, as he too loved nothing more than to nap in the most dire of circumstances. How he managed to stayed awake for long enough to conceive with a rich Singaporean businesswoman, I would never know (or want to find out). The girl's expensive silk pyjamas were stained by mud and monster goop, and ripped at the hems and knees, which she assured me would make her mummy very upset. Even though my arms ached, I clutched her tighter. I couldn't fail this innocent little girl, who'd known nothing but hardships in the guise of a golden life. She had told me (between naps) that she didn't mind that I wouldn't get it, as no one did, but sadly I knew _exactly_ how Aria Chua felt.

The last girl was the feistiest, the alpha leader of her mismatched pack. She was the same age as her friends, about ten or eleven, but had the guts of a rigorously trained soldier on the battlefield. Except, her tactics boiled down to 'smash everything, then _run for your life_' which was _not_ going to help us right now. Still, she insisted on running a few paces behind me so she could protect us if the 'big doggy' got any ideas - but how an eleven-year-old planned to beat a hellhound with a scraped and taped baseball bat, I had no clue, but I had learned not to question her. She reminded me of how Meg used to be at that age. All I could do was run as fast as I could and pray the hellhound didn't gain any ground. Her choppy blonde hair flew wildly around her like a lions mane, her expression just as fierce. Her ratty street-urchin jacket billowed out behind her, and her torn jeans flapped in the wind. Yes, Eden Ross made me think of Meg in more ways than one.

The hound was gaining on us, its glowing eyes washing the pavement with light the colour of blood. Its paws churned up the tarmac. Once I felt its warm breath rustle my hair, I knew it was too late.

For a split second, the moon was blocked out as the massive figure leaped over our heads. We skidded to a stop (Eden thumping into my legs and giving my thigh a painful whack with her baseball bat on instinct) as the creature landed in front of us with a mighty thud.

It snarled, foamy saliva dripping from its many-toothed maw. Its eyes flashed dangerously, its oily black ears pressed flat against its neck in aggression. It dug it's claws into the pavement, ready to pounce at any second. Beside me, Hetta whimpered and clung to my peacoat. Eden growled and tensed, ready to swing her bat at the hellhound's legs. Aria shifted in my arms, the commotion finally waking her up. I seized the opportunity and flung her down to sit at my feet next to Hetta, who grabbed her friend with her free arm, the other fist still tight around my coat. I pulled out a flashlight from my pocket. It had been made specially for me as a parting gift from Harley, as I had broken his first present to me while fighting Commodus in my trials (a celestial bronze ukulele which I had loved very much). If he could make such amazing contraptions when he was eight, he could certainly make astounding things as a thirteen year old. I clicked the 'on' button three times in quick succession, and the flashlight began to extend and morph until I held a sleek, matt black bow in my hand, which I drew. An arrow matching the dark sheen of the bow pooled into existence from the arrow rest to the bowstring.

The wretched creature did not seem to care. _A small pointy stick?_ It probably thought. _Ha! I eat those for supper!_ It stalked closer to us, unafraid and clearly drawing out the confrontation. It could kill us in seconds. We were no more than its source of entertainment. It was only a matter of time before it tired of this game of cat and mouse, and then we were toast.

I loosed my arrow. The hellhound snapped it up in its mighty jaw and chomped down on it like the deadly projectile was a cheap chew toy. I felt my heart sank as I realised that I had no hope of defeating this thing. Even if I managed to land a hit on it, I knew my arrows would do little to no harm to it. The best I could do was be a distraction, and by the Styx, I was going to do my best. These little girls deserved a chance to grow up - as someone very close to me once told me, everything living deserves a chance to grow.

I tightened my grip on my bow and stepped out in front of the kids.

"Mr Lester?" Hetta called uncertainly. "What are you-"

I glared over my shoulder and said in the most commanding tone I could muster: "Run."

"What?!" Eden barked, her bat still raised. "We are _not_ going to-"

The monster was on the move again. It bounded towards us, opening its jaws to reveal rows of glistening, jagged teeth washed red with blood. I turned back to ready myself for my final battle.

"RUN!"

I charged the monster, hoping beyond all hope that the girls had heeded my warning and fled. I had no time to check. I loosed a volley of arrows, aiming for the monster's eyes and joints. A dozen of them found their marks in the hellhound's matted fur, but it did nothing. I ducked as it made a swipe at my head with its claws. I released more arrows into its side when the monster whipped around, whacking me with its tail in the process and violently knocking the wind from my lungs. My leg made a sick cracking noise on impact with the cold ground. I lay on my back, gasping for breath before rolling onto my front and forcing myself to rise to my knees. Those kids needed me to give them time to get away, or they'd be dog food. I'd grown to care for them over the week they'd spent at my apartment, like all the demigods who passed through. I let steely determination flood my veins as I stood, gripping my bow until my knuckles were white. My left leg was screaming from my rough landing, causing me to lean to the right to keep my balance. 'Wobbly Young Adult' isn't exactly a feared status, but nonetheless I tried my best to look territorial. Thanks my many hours spent with Artemis and her hunting dogs, I had a general gist of what actions portrayed which messages, though it _had_ been a while since the last time I spoke wolf - since my last visit to Camp Jupiter, in fact.

Bearing my teeth, I drew myself up to my full height and glared daggers right into the deathly red eyes of the hellhound in silent challenge. Like; "_Hey, you just slapped me across the sidewalk, and I'm still standing. Leave my land, for there is _no way_ you're gonna top that._"

Thankfully, the hound seemed unsure of me. It sniffed at the air around me, circling me, as if deciding whether he should heed my warning or pounce and be done with it. I stayed opposite him, carefully sidestepping with my bow drawn and my expression stony. The bitter night air hung still in suspense, like the whole city was waiting with baited breath. Suddenly, without warning, a high, shrill scream of pure fury rang out from behind the Hellhound, startling both of us out of our brief stalemate. We broke eye contact as a little girl of eleven bolted towards the dog, baseball bat in hand and wrath on her face. Her irises seemed to glow yellow in the light of the streetlamps, making her eyes look as if they were alight with rage at this creature's intent to her friends. She swung her bat with all her might, yelling a war cry that resounded off the hard surfaces of the street. The bat connected with the hound's leg with an almighty _CRACK_ \- and shattered to splinters.

The Hellhound did not like being whacked by eleven-year-olds.

Eden's face dropped as the monster turned. It snarled and stalked threateningly towards her tiny frame. She backed away, terror evident in her movements as she dropped the remains of her bat with a clatter. The noise was enough to spur the hound into action. It pounced for Eden. The sheer thought of any of my girls being hurt was enough to make something snap - a click of power I hadn't felt since my last days as a mortal quester. I remembered how I felt when I saw Frank (precious, adorable Frank who would now be around my age now - twenty-five - but I still had trouble imagining him as anything other than the huggable seventeen-year-old praetor I had left the last time I was at Camp Jupiter) burst into flame in the Caldecott Tunnel. I remembered the power I had instinctively called upon when I wrapped my hands around the throat of Emperor Commodus. I called on the same protective might that had made a half-divine crumble.

I let out a singular note: all my love, rage and fear compacted into a roar that cracked the pavement and shattered the bulbs of every streetlight in sight, making glass rain down around me. The hound shuddered and whimpered, it's head was bowed and it clawed it it's ears, trying to block out the sound. Eden covered her ears and curled into a ball, the noise thumping down on her even though it wasn't aimed in her direction. The sight made me falter and stop, clamping my mouth shut should it let out another sound without permission. Everything was still once more - if only for that one second where I stood, glued to the cracked concrete, fearing the worst as I searched for signs that the demigod was okay. In that second, the Hellhound, though visibly weakened, turned from Eden to swipe at the source of the sound.

Claws raked from my right abdomen to my left shoulder. Warm, red blood, a stark contrast to the cold, frigid night, seeped through my shirt. A pain as white hot as Hephaestus's most scorching forge erupted from my entire torso. I toppled, my vision only staying clear enough for me to witness the Hellhound's dusty demise before blurring completely. My heart thumped in my ears. I don't know how long I lay there. Nothing disturbed me until those wailing sirens…

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